Miracle at the Museum of Broken Hearts Read Online Free Page A

who worked in the City. Filthy money-grubbing heartless swines, or something along those lines. ‘Anyway, you know I’m in love with Gareth. Did I tell you about his postcard? He even put four x’s.’ I met her eyes triumphantly. And here she was saying he’d never come back to me.
    Mel rolled her eyes. ‘He’s probably had enough of poverty and sees you as a free ride to come home to. Once he has his life set up again, I reckon you’ll see the back of him faster than he can say konichiwa .’
    Stung by my friend’s harsh words, I dropped my head to examine my wine. There was no point arguing; she’d see the truth when Gareth stuck. ‘I think konichiwa is Japanese. Gareth’s in Vietnam.’ I pushed back my chair. ‘I’d better get going. I’ve got to make an early start tomorrow.’
    ‘ I’m sorry.’ Mel looked repentant. ‘It’s just, I don’t want to see you hurt again.’
    I sighed as a wave of exhaustion swept over me . The cold and the endless shifting of heavy boxes packed with detritus from people’s pasts were making my body, head, and soul ache. ‘I know. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’
    I shuffled out into the street, thankful it was just a ten-minute walk home. The misty night had turned into one of those rainy, chilly evenings where everything smelled of wet wool, and my knuckles turned ruddy red from the cold as I clutched the umbrella.
    As people pushed past, I wondered if they all had stories of heartache and woe similar to what I’d read today. Well, sure, probably, I told myself. Everyone had some trouble in their life. But that didn’t mean it had to define you, or colour your future. The most important bit was keeping your head up and staying positive.
    When I got back to the flat , I was going to do just that. Finish watching An Affair to Remember , pour myself another large red, curl up with Beano, and dream of the moment when Gareth would walk through my door.

 
    CHAPTER FIVE
     
     
    The next two weeks passed in a blur as the museum opening loomed closer. Slowly but surely, I was making my way through the boxes, organising like a demon now that I had my system down pat. Ten days remained until the grand opening, and I still had five large boxes to get through – not to mention setting up the rooms. But as I’d opened the boxes, I’d managed to map out everything in my head. I was going to lay out each room as if someone still lived there: with the salt shaker on the kitchen table; the pants in the bedroom; the broken mirror in the living area. A mounted frame with a scan of the item’s original letter would accompany every artefact. This would be a living, breathing house of heartache, and even the thought made me cringe.
    Luckily, for every tale I’d read, I’d managed to construct an alternate reality. That broken mirror? Smashed by a flailing limb during a particularly energetic bout of sex. The glossy violin? Its owner had decided he preferred the clarinet. I knew I shouldn’t be sullying the items’ historical accuracy, even in my head. But if I didn’t, I’d have probably dropped dead of depression by now. How did people deal with such sad stories?
    Once I’d created my own little way of coping, I was actually enjoying the job. The hours flew by and before I knew it, it would be six and time to head back to Beano. I loved the feeling of ownership and responsibility, and I’d give anything to make a success of my position and be up for promotion. Things had been so crazy I’d barely seen Heath, except to run my ideas by him which, thankfully, he’d loved.
    After setting as ide the last item in a box – an old, worn bunny that put me in mind of the Velveteen Rabbit – I scrambled to my feet and stretched. Every muscle in my body throbbed, and my eyes itched from the dust. Yawning, I pushed my hair behind my ears and trudged up the cellar steps.
    ‘ Oh, hello.’ Heath emerged from the kitchen as I reached the top. ‘On your way home?’
    ‘ Yes. Just a